I'll spin on the spinning chair,
round and round and . . .

Clasping to the belt
Hanging on the top bed bunk
I pass the bed and the door
Che and the floor.

Is it really a bunk bed?
There's not really a bottom bunk.
Just me
And my clothes
And my one gig notepad.

My head's beginning to rebel.
Opposite directions.
Disorientation.
Should I spin so violently?
when I could be philosophising
or emphasising
or . . .

What an idiot.

I'll spin on the spinning chair,
round and round and stop.

I want to be an Actor, but
I don't think I can speak.
I want to be a dancer, but
I don't have the mystique.
I want to be a writer, but
My writing is ignored.
I want to be a comic,
But my humour is abbhored.

Unwind the spinning chair.
Go back to stanza 1.